


A Long Day

by myuglyone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, shameless self-insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myuglyone/pseuds/myuglyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and his partner share a moment of closeness at the end of a long day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long Day

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Vanity Fair pic of Benedict with the undone tie and the hair. You know the one I'm talking about. I found that photo so exciting that I was inspired to write my first fic in this fandom, my second fic ever, and the first thing I've written at all in over a decade. I don't know if it's any good, but I had fun writing it. Thank *you* for reading it!

“Well, that was tedious.” He runs up the stairs and strides into the flat, already pulling off his suit jacket. You trudge up behind him, fondly shaking your head at his dramatics. In the sitting room, he casually throws his formerly immaculate black jacket in the direction of the couch and begins pacing, shaking his hands as if to fling off all of that tediousness. He’s a man of action: standing around all evening making nice at a charity gala, especially when he wasn’t successful in tracking down his lead suspect, has clearly filled him with irritable nervous energy.

You pull off your own suit jacket and lay it on the back of the armchair chair and just enjoy watching him pace, a sleek racehorse unbridled. He stops in front of the window, idly gazing down at the late night traffic on Baker Street. He slowly rotates his neck from one shoulder to the other, stretching. A smooth ripple of muscle across his shoulder blades. Your mouth waters.

Magnetized, your eyes lock on the fluid movements of his upper body. You find yourself moving closer, hands itching to stroke the fine fabric covering those shoulders. You wrap your arms around him from behind, sliding the palms of your hands up under his waistcoat.

“God, I’ve been wanting to touch you all evening,” you sigh, rubbing your cheek against his back.

He moans, just a bit, and leans his chest forward into your stroking, gentling hands. You press a soft kiss to his spine and urge him to turn around. He leans over and presses his lips to yours, and now it’s your turn to moan. You suck gently on that gorgeously pouty lower lip that you’ve been salivating over all evening, slide your tongue over that impossible Cupid’s bow. He lets you take control of the kiss, and you greedily try to stroke his tongue, loosen the knot of his silk satin tie, and unbutton everything else all at the same time. Your fingers struggle with the fussy buttons of his no-longer-crisp white shirt. He sucks gently on your tongue, and you decide to give up on the buttons. You have to taste his skin, this minute.

You tear your lips away from his and begin pressing sucking kisses to his too-sharp collarbone, pushing his tie and shirt collar out of the way. His hands stroke up and down your back, the warmth of his fingers both soothing and inflaming. He tilts his head back, inviting.

“Oh, god,” you exclaim again, seduced by that endless expanse of pale skin. You can’t help but stretch up onto your toes to lick and kiss your way up his neck and nuzzle under his jaw, under his ear, searching out the scent of warm, slightly stale human underneath the astringency of his cologne, now hours faded. He groans, a rumble deep in his chest that sends a sympathetic shiver down your spine.

You surge up and capture his lips again, your tongue meeting his in a slow open-mouthed kiss. Your hands move up into his hair, and you scrape your fingers up the back of his skull, pulling apart the smoothed-down curls. You both need a little comfort and closeness, and nothing pleases either of you more than you running your hands through his hair. But having to stand back, unable to touch, and watch the cool elegance of him manoeuvring through the crowd in that delectable suit has driven you a bit mad with desire. You’re torn between two delicious fantasies: first, you want to get him into the shower, listen to him groan with pleasure as you wash his hair, run your hands down his naked chest, slippery with shower gel, but then you also want to get him in your bed and balls-deep in you as soon as humanly possible. Yes.

You lean back into the supporting embrace of his hands and survey your handiwork. Tie pulled to the side, shirt dishevelled and waistcoat unbuttoned, neck glistening with your saliva, lips kiss-bruised, hair deliberately mussed. Perfect. Then you look more closely at his face, and a third possibility presents itself.

“Just look at you. Oh dear, you look so tired!” you say, chuckling. He really does look exhausted.

He frowns and visibly bristles, perhaps at the evidence of his body betraying him, or at having revealed a weakness he would rather not admit to having. Even so, his eyes remain heavy-lidded and dull, and your hands ache to smooth the furrow between his brows. Just looking at his strained blue eyes makes you feel every minute of the past twenty-five hours since you last slept yourself. You feel the corners of your mouth turning up helplessly, until you’re fully grinning up at him. One more quick press of lips, another brush of your fingers through his hair for good measure, and you chuckle again.

“Come on, love, time for bed.” He huffs out a breath of annoyance, but as you grab his hands and pull, he follows you unresisting toward the bedroom. Falling asleep with his heart beating reassuringly beneath your ear and his arm heavy around your waist sounds just about perfect. You can’t wait.


End file.
